I was in no mood to dispute such a matter, and pushed the thing towards him. Possessing it, he scuttled quickly away. Katie’s door slammed shut, and I found myself in near darkness.
And now?
I sat myself in the room, to wait. In the slim hope that she would return. What else, I reasoned, was there left to do?
Unless…
Joshua Jeavons, urgency returned to his step once more as he strides towards his old lodging, and beyond, to a heap of refuse piled against a low wall. Joshua Jeavons, sifting through the filth with his hands, but carefully, as if it may do him some injury, softly calling out as he does so, repeating a name. Joshua Jeavons, drawing out some manner of creature – by appearance a mix of rat and rotted dishcloth – clutching it warily, with a firm grip about its neck.
The animal was in a poor way. Indeed, for a moment I wondered if he was alive at all; probably he had barely stirred since his fight with the urchin. Then, however, I observed some faint signs of life; opening an eye he uttered a dull growl and lazily swivelled his head in an effort to apply his teeth to my hand.
Carefully I lowered him to the ground. Seeing a puddle of water he drank keenly. While he did so I took off my jacket, then my shirt, from which I tore away the sleeves – the garment had reached such a stage of frailty that they parted easily – and, tying these together, twisted them into a kind of rude leash. Quickly I slipped it over the animal’s head.
Then back, carrying the animal in my arms – I must have seemed like a parent fondly carrying some child of Beelzebub – I hurried back to the doorway. Up the stairs, past Katie’s door – tight shut – and to the empty room beyond.
‘Don’t die on me now, Pericles. Find her and I’ll never quarrel with you again.’ I placed the creature on to the nest of ruffled sheets.
He only whimpered, causing me to wonder if – a fearful thought – he had quite forgotten his old mistress. But then he hesitated. Sniffed, and sniffed again. And at once there was transformation; his eyes opened wider, exuding something almost like alertness.
‘Find her, find her. She must be somewhere in this great city.’
Slowly we made our way out of the room, down the stairs, and into the wind-blown metropolis. The animal was keen enough, certainly, but was fearfully retarded by his weakness. Though sometimes he walked without assistance – even pulled at the leash – more usually I had to carry him, holding him as close to the ground as I was able, with his snout pointing down to the ground that he could sniff, while I would listen for yelps of protest when I took the wrong direction. Naturally this was a most imperfect method of pursuit. Most troubling, however, was his alarming tendency to lose the scent.
Thus in Covent Garden he grew confused, leading me back and forth – yelping and snarling in my arms – among overturned fruit baskets and heaps of discarded plums. Indeed, it was only by ignoring his protests and carrying him quite from the place, back to the last spot where he had enjoyed confident progress, that we managed to resume the search.
Then the same occurred in the Strand. For some time we loitered infuriatingly on that highway that never sleeps while the creature sniffed and wheezed among the dirt strewn on the pavement. Taking him back to an earlier part of the trail proved unavailing, and it was only at a spot further onwards that – with a sudden bark – he again led the way forward.
My confidence began to grow when we crossed Trafalgar Square – as empty now as a parade ground on the day of battle – and descended Whitehall. The route was starting to take a kind of shape. Southwards… I wondered if we might be approaching the house at Lark Road. Perhaps she had managed to elude the pale fellow. Although I realized that it was also possible Pericles had quite misplaced the scent, and we would abruptly find ourselves in some anonymous gin palace, he tugging at the skirts of a stranger.
At Parliament Square I almost despaired. We must have tracked back and forth two dozen times – the broken skyline of the half-rebuilt Palace of Westminster glowering down upon us – and then, at such a vital moment, the creature had the gall to fall quite asleep. The details of what followed are now lost to me – dissolved in nightmarish weariness – and I barely recall what method of noise or threat I used to bring him to consciousness, nor how he regained his way. But somehow he did.
Westwards he led. Quite away from Lark Road, then… Close above us the windows of the office – my old work place – peered out, blank and dark. And, quite abruptly, I was all but sure I knew our destination.
Nor was I wrong. The animal, too, seemed to gain enthusiasm, demanding to be set down upon the ground and limp forward without help. Through grand residential streets we went, past fine villas, the greenery of St James’s Park – gloomy at this hour – ever visible in the distance. Until we reached those iron railings, so familiar to me.
Pericles showed keenness to mark the end of the chase with a display of triumphant – if feeble – barking. He might wake half the household. I picked him up and, though he showed some resistance, managed to quiet him. I have been wondrous glad ever since.
The only sign of life within the house was a faint glow from behind one of the upstairs curtains. Stepping into the porch, I saw the heavy front door shift faintly in the breeze; it was not secured. Strange. Also useful. Fingers about Pericles’ snout, I stepped inside.
The sight of the stairway proved too much for the animal; sensing himself so close, he jumped from my arms and, twisting and tugging himself backwards, was able – despite all my efforts to prevent him – to pull himself free from the leash. Away he scuttled, in a brief burst of agility, paws sliding to grip on the slippery marble, up the grand stairway. Alarmed that he might yet alert all to our arrival, I followed close behind. Up to the first floor – he vanishing about a corner of the landing – and to a half-closed door. I stepped into the room beyond.
And thus, in the small hours of a late summer’s morning, after all that long summer of searchings, I finally found my wife.
It was she my eyes lit first upon. She was seated upon the bed, back resting against the wall, and, even in the instant that I observed her, I can remember being struck by how strangely comfortable she looked; more so, indeed, than I ever recalled seeing her before. Pericles had lost no time, and was already sat in her lap, licking her hand, while she stroked his head absently, as if she had not fully noticed his arrival. Her clothes were a shock; a cheap scarlet dress – all cleavage and such – of the kind that Katie might have worn. Worse were the marks of bruises on her face. But most of all I was surprised by the look in her eyes, so unseeing. She seemed no more attentive to my presence than she was to Pericles’, staring before her with a kind of unsettling calm.
My glance moved onwards to her father, beside her on the bed. He was not leaning against the wall, but lay on his back; only as I drew nearer could I properly see him. There is something most troubling about the sight of older people in their nakedness, and that was the first shock to me: his dressing gown and pyjama trousers lay on the ground, and he wore only the jacket, leaving exposed a bulk of flesh.
The second shock, of course, was his throat. With his head thrown back this was all too clearly seen, gaping red beneath his jaw; like a second mouth, hungrily open. Though I could see no blood in movement, there must have been quite a torrent, as the sheets about him were coloured for some feet distant. In one direction streaked a long creeping stain.
That stain. Following the line of it with my eyes, I had the feeling of having been pursuing this path all these months, these years. There it crept, over the sheets to the far side of the bed, to my wife – her dress, I now saw, spattered with darker reds – along her shoulder, down her arm, and to the hand itself, elegant fingers still clutching the tiny browning flash of a razor.
She spoke at last, seeing me and not seeing me. ‘Have they come? I left the door open.’
‘There’s only me.’
She seemed disappointed.
I looked from her to Moynihan, from Moynihan to her. So it w
as he. Had always been he, from the first. Even before I had met her. Strange to say, it was as if part of me had known all along. As if half the summer’s madness had sprung from this alone. My fevered work to transform London. All.
Her fingers tightened faintly about Pericles’ head, and he glanced at her. ‘Will they be here soon?’ She spoke the words with directness, like a child who expects one to know the answer to any question she may ask. A clock rang out faintly somewhere in the house, striking five, and she seemed to lose interest.
Months of engagement, a year and one half of marriage, and it had taken this moment, in such a place, both of us dressed in rags… I stared at the broken hulk beside her. Only one thing mattered now. The bliss of knowing what matters. ‘What of the man who brought you? The pale one?’
‘He left. As soon as he had his money.’
He would have been working for Moynihan from the beginning. My father-in-law must have been searching no less hard than me. Searching out of fear of what she might tell? Or simply… So much was clear now. Even the business of the secret Admiralty work would have been no more than invention, that he might hurry away whenever he chose.
As if such things were important now.
‘You must come with me.’
She seemed puzzled. ‘Where?’
‘Where you must go.’
I made a tour of the room, pocketing any small valuables that would easily fit into my pockets; sovereigns, golden cufflinks, watch and chain, and more. Jem would know where such items could be got rid of.
The splendour of fine houses; the room had an adjoining bathroom with piped water. Leading Isobella thither by the hand – she followed as quiet as could be – I pulled the vile dress over her head, and rinsed it in the sink, time and again, until it was all but even in colour. Next I carefully cleansed her arms, soothing away the dried brown stains, and vanishing the scab-like lingerings between her fingers. Easing them away. There being no chance of drying the dress, I had to place it over her still wet, hoping we might reach Jem’s rooms before she caught cold.
Only as we were about to leave did she lose her strange calm. The mood came upon her suddenly. As I was leading her by the hand, out of the room, she abruptly pulled herself free, then hurried back, returning to her place beside him on the bed. ‘We can’t leave him here. We can’t.’ She looked confused. ‘Not by himself.’
‘We must.’ I took her hand. The fit left her as swiftly as it had begun, and she allowed herself to be led from the room, like a child. Down the great stairway we went. And thus, Pericles trotting at her side, we stepped from the front door. The rain had ceased, and we walked into the steamy grey of a late summer dawn.
THE WESTMINSTER MURDER
Yesterday shortly after eight o’clock, the neighbourhood of Westminster was alarmed in consequence of the mutilated remains of a man being discovered in one of the houses in Trowbridge Street, close by St James’s Park. The deceased, who was discovered by the butler, Mr Barrett, was recognized as being none other than the master of the household, the eminent engineer Mr Augustus Moynihan, a figure much respected in his profession, who, among his many projects, designed the Hubert Canal that was opened by the late King.
Several detective police active of C division were immediately employed, including Barton, Barnes and Smith, who at once engaged in making inquiries. Mr Lockwood, a medical officer connected with one of the hospitals, was passing with our reporter shortly after their arrival, and instantly rendered his assistance. He discovered the deceased had been stabbed through the throat at least once, while the absence of the weapon from the scene told the impossibility of the wound having been self-inflicted.
Inquiries during the day revealed the dreadful murder to be a matter of no little mystery. No signs of forced entry were found, and the police are of the belief that the murderer was likely known to the deceased; having probably been admitted into the house by him. The butler, Mr Barrett, explained that recently the deceased had been in the habit of receiving visitors at very late hours, in connexion, Mr Moynihan had explained, with a special engineering project he had undertaken. When questioned, employees at Mr Moynihan’s engineering company told of how he was believed to have been engaged on secret work for the Admiralty, although they were ignorant of further details.
The Admiralty itself has been swift to respond to the matter, and at three o’clock this afternoon a statement was issued denying that Mr Moynihan’s services had been employed in any capacity. Nevertheless there has been no little speculation as to whether there may have been a political motive for the atrocious deed, especially in view of the tragic absence of both Mr Moynihan’s daughter, Isobella Jeavons, and her husband Joshua. Mrs Jeavons is reported to have suddenly vanished three months ago, prompting an inconclusive police investigation. Her husband made determined efforts to discover her, but has not himself been heard of for many weeks. Their house was this afternoon found to be quite empty, even of furniture, and there is much concern that they may have fallen victim to the same merciless criminal who caused the death of Mr Moynihan.
Additional Particulars
Other evidence, however, of apparently contradictory implication, has also come to light. A number of valuables were discovered to be missing from the deceased’s bedroom, including his gold watch and a number of pieces of his late wife’s jewellery. In addition Mrs James Lionel, whose husband is a colonel in the Welsh Guards, and whose house in Trowbridge Street is situated nearly opposite that of the deceased, reported seeing at half-past five o’clock in the morning, a man and woman of criminal appearance, walking into the street as if they had just emerged from Mr Moynihan’s door. The man she described as a vagrant, the woman as dressed in the manner of a prostitute. Though unable to clearly see their faces, she observed the woman to be carrying some strange animal of hideous appearance, which she deemed to be of foreign origin, perhaps a form of stoat.
It is not impossible that the murderer deliberately employed a disguise. Mr Geoffrey Wilkinson, landlord of the beerhouse in Clarence Road, adjoining Trowbridge Street, reported seeing a group of five or more foreigners loitering near his establishment on the afternoon before the murder was discovered, whom he described as ‘speaking French’, and ‘acting in a furtive manner that excited my suspicions’.
Considerable excitement has been caused by the horrible event, and the house has been literally besieged with persons anxious to see it. The door is guarded by police, whose task of suppressing the public curiosity is anything but an easy one.
Throughout the afternoon and evening a large number of detective police, including some in private clothes, have been actively engaged in watching the departure of trains from the various railway stations of the metropolis, in case any persons answering the description...
Despite its southern location, spring reaches Turin hardly sooner than it does England; doubtless a consequence of the city’s altitude, and proximity to the mountains. Even now the trees have not progressed beyond the forming of tiny branches, possessed of such a look of detail that, standing out against the bright March sky, they give a sense of one’s eyesight having suddenly changed for the better. As for the smaller plants, a few of these have formed small and tentative buds, though at such an early season they put their blossom at risk by so doing; even now the mornings can begin with the sharp chill of frost.
Cold though it can be, the climate seems to suit Isobella. In fact she often...
But wait. Perhaps you are angry with me, because of my omission. All this time, and I never told. Well, in my defence I will say that even memoirs are a form of story – or should be – and a wise teller chooses with care the moment of his revelations.
Two years. And good ones they have been, too, although I will not claim all as easy. How could it be so? My wife has been a patient, slowly and fitfully regaining her strength, as the panic drains away from her. Some of it, I know, will probably never be gone.
She has her own room – an arrangement I myself ma
de, that the many ghosts be given a chance to die in their own time – and at first she rarely ventured from within its walls. More recently, however, I have been pleased to see she has begun taking short walks with Pericles in the vicinity of our home, and braving the Torinese dialect to make a few purchases at one of the markets. Indeed, of late she has even shown a willingness to visit me in my study – before she would never venture near – and perhaps stay for an hour or two, reading from a book or sipping a cup of coffee, while I work upon some element of the Fiuli to Nerono railway line, of which I am now chief contractor. A week ago she let me slowly stroke her hair.
How far will she progress along this road? That I cannot say. I will tell you only that I will make her as well as she may become. She is my only project now. And do not doubt, I warn you, the determination of Joshua Jeavons.
Myself? Perhaps it will suffice to report that no longer do I fear waking in the night, damp with perspiration, heart beating from dreams of knives. Nor, though I would gladly see it improved, do I feel any pressing need to single-handedly transform all the world by cleansing it of effluent.
And the Cholera? I have not ceased my efforts to convince the world of the real nature of the malady, although you will realize the difficulties involved; the great distance, and the poorness of the postal system of this country seem like conspirators against my efforts. Also the need to retain my anonymity – from fancy I chose for us the title of Mr and Mrs Henry Aldwych – prevents me giving exact details of my evidence. Still I have sent out quite a salvo of letters, to members of the reconvened Committee for Sewers, to Parish authorities, and members of Parliament. Nor will I cease such actions, though, sad to say, I cannot report any success to date. The miasma theory seems to hold on to men’s minds with tenacity.
The strength of false ideas. If I have learned anything from my summer of discoveries, it is that the more accepted and widespread a notion, the more fiercely it should be suspected. Beliefs have a dangerous habit of creating their own momentum – the momentum of mere fashion – until any who oppose them become the subject of humorous derision, revilement, or worse; a truth that holds as well for small clans as for great nations. Readers, guard yourselves, I urge you, against that toxic slumber of unanimity.
Sweet Thames Page 30